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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957811">2-Down   (A 15-Across remix)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata'>Visinata</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Crossword Puzzles, Head Injury, M/M, Memory Loss, Not so secret crush, Pining, Plotting, Secret Crush, Talking, Trains, merwolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:56:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24957811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon sits by the same man on the train to work most mornings, and watches him do his crossword puzzle. In many ways these fifteen minutes are the best part of his day.</p><p>Baz sits next to the same man on the train to work most mornings while he does his crossword puzzle. In many ways these fifteen minutes are the best part of his day. In other ways they're the worst.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>161</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Carry On Remix</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>2-Down   (A 15-Across remix)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/gifts">NineMagicks</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036015">15-across</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks">NineMagicks</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It was such a privilege to get to remix this amazing fic by this amazing author!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><br/>I’ve got a good thing going with the bloke on the train.</p><p><br/>I don’t know what we’re doing exactly, but it’s good. I like it. (Is this flirting or just me being weird?)</p><p><br/>I see him every morning on the way to work - Monday to Friday, rain or shine. He gets on three stops after me and always boards my carriage. (Well, it’s not my carriage.) (I don’t know why I decided the third carriage from the front was the best, but I did, and I sit in the same seat so he’ll know where I am: 2A.)</p><p><br/>Sometimes the train’s full because the one ahead of ours is running late, and everyone piles on here instead. I try to save 2B for him with my bag (yeah, I’m one of those passengers) but it doesn’t always work. I can’t exactly refuse the seat to an old lady or a person with loads of luggage, can I? They wouldn’t get it, if I tried to explain. There’s this fit man who gets on at Watford and I really want him to sit by me, so I can ignore him more effectively.</p><p><br/>There’s something familiar about him, but it’s not like I know him. In all the commutes we've spent together, we haven't said more than ten words to each other.</p><p><br/>Even so. I wait for him. (Is that creepy?) (Penny says it's fine, but I'm not sure.)</p><p><br/>I move closer to the window so I can see the platform as we pull in, and I can make sure he's there.<br/>He's possibly the best looking person I've seen. Definitely top five. Not that I'd tell him. He's not one of those annoying passengers who talk too loudly on their phones, or chew in your ear, or try to make small talk about nothing. He just sits quietly doing a crossword puzzle, while I look at my phone and try to think of something clever to say.</p><p><br/>I never do. But that's alright.</p><p><br/>Sometimes I think he’s looking at me out of the side of his eyes while he’s working on his puzzle. Penny says it’s possible, but I don’t need to get hung up on it.</p><p><br/>We've got a good thing going and I'd hate to ruin it by accusing him of plotting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><br/>It's Thursday morning and there’s a chill wind.</p><p>The train pulls in (only two minutes late, which is nothing to grumble about) and I stand in my usual spot on the platform, sipping coffee and trying to catch a glimpse of Simon through the window without being obvious. In an ideal world I’d still be living in my London flat and wouldn’t be reduced to the charade of this bloody commute. In an ideal world Simon would have woken this morning by my side, with his memory of the past five years intact. And I’d be more to him than a <em>bloody fit vampire</em> (his words, according to Bunce) on the train. But my world for the past year has been so far less than ideal.</p><p>The first two months after the accident were spent in and out of hospital—for me—Simon never left. But I was there every day once I was well enough, tag teaming with Penelope and sometimes Agatha, who was visiting from America. Until the day it became clear the perennial fog and confusion he’d been living in was settling and he was coming out the other side. He was going to be okay. But the Simon who emerged was a Simon who didn’t remember anything about his life after sixth form. No uni, no shared flat with Penelope. No me.</p><p>It was clear having me there was distressing for him. Trying to wrap his head around <em>anything</em> from the years he had lost was. And so I saw myself out of his daily life, and Bunce and I put our heads together to do some plotting, which was complicated by the fact that Simon refuses to let a flat in London. He’s told her that London accommodations “take the effing piss” in terms of affordability. So here we are, Simon and I: fellow commuters, silent, side-by-side—strangers on the train. Our new normal.</p><p>When Penelope and I first put this scheme into motion, about half a year ago now, I convinced myself it would be a matter of weeks before he remembered. Who I am, who we are to each other. I could tell, even without his memories of our time at uni together, that he was interested in me. He'd always be at the same window, and I'd always catch his eye. Sometimes there would be a muddy backpack in seat 2B and I'd pretend to look for somewhere else to sit, until he moved it. He always moves it.</p><p>We don't speak. Usually we don't even exchange greetings - occasionally I'll get a "hello" from him, or a wave of the hand, and I can never make up my mind whether to beam or weep. I do neither. I did take my heart in my hands once, after the first month had passed, and asked him his name (as if I don’t whisper it to myself in the dead of night), but he had earbuds in and didn't hear me.</p><p>But this is enough. It’s more than I thought I’d have. Three or four mornings a week I sit next to him while he texts with Bunce and I do the daily crossword, stealing glances at him out of the corner of my eye, and hoping desperately that he’ll notice me. It’s like first year at uni all over again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><br/>He's here! I saw him on the platform, drinking from a paper cup. For a second I could've sworn he looked right at me.</p><p><br/>I feel nervous. I don't even know him, even though sometimes I feel like I do - why do I care if he sits by me?</p><p><br/>He stirs up things inside me. His presence tugs on things at the back of my memory. Makes me question things. Maybe that's why I care.</p><p>I had a girlfriend before uni, but it didn't work out. And that's fine. She got a job in America and she sends me a long email every Christmas telling me how great it is. She came back to help take care of me when I was in hospital a year ago. It was good to have her there. Someone familiar from the part of my life I do remember. But I wasn’t interested in her anymore. I’m glad she’s happy where she is now, and I didn't bother finding anyone else after we broke up. At least… I don’t think I did.</p><p><br/>I don’t recall.</p><p><br/>Penny won’t talk to me about a lot of things that happened during uni. She says she tried but it was too upsetting for me to hear about things from my life that I can’t remember. And I can’t remember any of it, the good, the bad, the classes I took, the friends I made, the books I read. Four years gone, a complete blank.</p><p><br/>But, over the past few months, now that I’m more steadily on my feet, I’ve begun missing some of the normal things about life. I want to be seeing someone again. I’d started thinking about maybe meeting someone who could put up with me. There was even a woman on my afternoon commute who I had my eye on for a while, long blond hair, smart suits, a little like Agatha really, but more prone to smiling.</p><p>Then one day this bloke sat down next to me and, well, it made me think.</p><p><br/>The way I <em>notice</em> him feels different. The way he makes me want to stare (and would if I weren’t afraid of being caught ogling him in public).</p><p>I'm not sure I'll really understand why I’m so drawn to him until I've done something I can't take back.</p><p>(Like follow him home. Or kiss him.) (I think about kissing him a lot.) (He's a fucking distraction.)</p><p><br/>I think I fancy him. Just a bit.</p><p><br/>Just a lot.</p><p><br/>It's been six months and it's driving me mad. (In a good way.)</p><p>I see him boarding the train. I slide my bag off the seat, just in case he gets here in time. I clean my mess off the tray table, just in case it gets in his way. I move a bit closer to the window, just in case he needs more room. And I pretend not to be bothered if he sits by me or not. (Just in case he thinks I am.)</p><p><br/>There aren't that many people waiting this morning - the 7:22 must have been on time.</p><p><br/>I resist the urge to look over my shoulder and see if he's walking along the aisle, with his shiny black briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.</p><p><br/>I smell him before I see him. That's another thing - not only does he look good, with his suits and ties and pretty hair, but he smells good, too. Familiar, like spice and wood and comforting things I can’t quite put my finger on. He must work in a bank or somewhere else with loads of money, because he always looks like he's worth about a million pounds. (At half seven in the morning, too. I bet he thinks I'm a right caveman, slouched here in my hoodie and jeans.)</p><p><br/>I wonder what his name is. He looks like he'd have an old-fashioned, traditional name - Nicholas, Charles, or Malcolm. Something classy.</p><p><br/>He sits down next to me, folding his long legs into the gap between us and the row in front. (I'd say he's about 70% legs.) He pulls down his tray table and puts a newspaper on it, fetching his pen out of his shirt pocket. He always uses the same one. It’s green with wood inlay—beautiful. And it’s got letters engraved on the side—TBGP—(which jiggles something in my memory that won’t quite fall into place).</p><p>At any rate, that’s too many letters for it to be his initials, surely, but it looks personal. I wonder if someone gave it to him. I wonder if it’s from a girlfriend. Maybe a boyfriend? Hopefully an ex.</p><p><br/>I try to look at the crossword without him noticing. Sometimes I fantasise about him getting stuck on an answer, and me leaning across and whispering it in his ear. (Proper creepy, aren't I?) (I literally can't help it.) Nine letter word for humorous...nope. An over-enthusiastic group of followers (4)? No idea. It's unrealistic to think he'd need my help, anyway. It's only fifteen minutes from Watford to London but in that time he gets over half of it done. (Once, he did the whole bloody thing and just sat there glowing. Looking downright ethereal.) (I had to physically restrain myself from jumping on him.) (Even thinking about it is enough to get me going. Fuck me.)</p><p><br/>I get out my phone to text Penny. She lives in the city so she's always in the office first, keeping track of my commute. I made the mistake of telling her about the bloke on the train and she's seriously invested - sometimes I send her crossword clues and she looks up the answers, so I can impress him. (I don't.)</p><p>[7:28] Simon: <strong>4 letters for enthusictic group fo followers???</strong><br/>[7:29] Penny: <strong>Cult. Turn your spellcheck on. What's BFV wearing today?</strong></p><p>I shove my phone in my pocket, hoping he wasn't looking at the screen. (I know he looks at me sometimes.) I’ve described him to Penny. She knows he likes to wear these silky, flowery shirts under his suit jacket. She calls him BFV - Bloody Fit Vampire—because that’s how I described him to her the first time I saw him—and I would die if he knew that. I take a quick look at him now, black trousers with red pinstripes, black shirt, black jacket, dark red tie.</p><p><br/>He looks good. (Really, really good.) Even better than usual.</p><p>Maybe there's something special about today?</p><p><br/>And here I am in the same jeans I've been wearing all week, looking like I've just lost a fight with a farmyard.</p><p><br/>Fuck my life.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><br/>The train pulls away from the station. Simon already has his phone out and I manage to tamp down my urge to push it out of the way, to say, “<em>Simon, look at me. Is there nothing about me that’s familiar? Don’t you remember?</em>”<br/>Sitting next to Simon almost every weekday morning for the past six months has been the best part of my day, and also crushingly painful. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I managed to remain relatively calm whilst claiming 2B this morning. It doesn't appear that any of the other passengers noticed how desperate I was. It baffles me to think that none of them have noticed how good looking Simon is—if they had, surely they'd be engaging me in a duel to the death for this seat every morning.</p><p>He still wears jeans. He still wears t-shirts. He still leaves remnants of granola bars scattered across his tray, like the remains of a carcass. But he’s a world away from me now. If only I could figure out what words to say to begin a mundane get-to-know-you conversation with the love of my life.</p><p>He's leaning his head against the window, fingers fumbling for his earbuds. Once they're in, I've lost him—his foot will occasionally nudge mine as he taps it in time to the music, and it brings swells of sense memory back from the time before. Further opportunities for eye contact slip from rare to non-existent.</p><p>Bugger this. I won't lose another day to longing. There's no guarantee I’ll manage to sit with him tomorrow and then I'll have to wait the entire weekend to work up my nerve again.</p><p><br/>I clear my throat and look his way. The sun's coming through the window, highlighting his curls and cheekbones.</p><p><br/>In short, the sun is making a mockery of my life.</p><p><br/>My heart's beating far too quickly. After six months of sitting by him, you'd think he’d have begun to at least make the tendrils of a connection to who I am, but according to Bunce all he’s done is moon over me, the “stranger” on the train, and I have no idea if it’s because somewhere inside he remembers, or whether he merely finds me attractive. It would be depressing, but no surprise if he’s interested in me just for my looks. Anyone would be.<br/>It’s time I tried again to get through to him.</p><p>"Good morning," I manage, lifting my coffee cup to my lips to mask my fear that this is worse than hopeless.</p><p>I plan my next words, <em>Do you realize that I’m the love of your life? That we were about to move in together? That I know your name is Simon?</em></p><p>”Terrible weather,” I say.</p><p><br/>He freezes minutely and I’m swept with a sudden fear that I've said one of the things I was thinking out loud.</p><p><br/>But then he lowers his hands from his earbuds and looks directly at me, jutting out his chin.</p><p><br/>"It was raining earlier," he says, turning away so quickly he clips the window frame with the side of his face.</p><p><br/>"Yes, how typical," I splutter, mentally calculating how much time remains until we reach Euston. Ten minutes? Twelve? There's one stop left at Willesden, which might give us an extra minute or two, depending on how many are waiting to board. "Typical London." And then—possibly because I couldn't carry twelve minutes of decent conversation with a direct relative, let alone someone I thought I would marry—I commence unloading my life story, "I'm supposed to go to a garden party tonight, at Pitch Manor, but I dare say it'll be rained off. All of my family will be there, Father, Mother, Mordeila, the twins, my Aunt Fiona. All negotiating who shares an umbrella with whom. It'll be a fiasco."</p><p>Now that we’re taking, I’m desperate to throw in everything I can think of to jog his memory. I think about my family, asking after Simon, wondering why he still doesn’t have his memory back. Variably encouraging me to move on with my life (Father) or suggesting far-fetched mystical cures for brain trauma induced amnesia (Aunt Fiona).</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><br/>Garden party. Shit, how posh is he? At least that explains the nice clothes. Am I supposed to know what “Pitch Manner” is?</p><p><br/>My brain's still struggling to cope with the fact that we're talking. I should say something back that isn't completely stupid, right? I need Penny to feed me lines.</p><p><br/>"Hard luck." I'm dying to be nosy and ask whose party it is. At least it sounds like it’s family. But… “Mordelia?” I say and curse myself when he freezes suddenly. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Stupid stupid.</p><p><br/>“Is that your girl— erm, your…“ I can’t ask him about his possible girlfriend like this.</p><p><br/>“My sister,” he says, voice low, like saying it is a struggle. What's that’s about?</p><p><br/>“Well, it’s early yet. Could clear up,” I say, desperately trying to recover this doomed conversation. I don’t want this to be the last time he tries to talk to me.</p><p><br/>”True," he says, and I swear he almost smiles. "Can't lose all hope just yet, can we?"</p><p><br/>His voice is soft, deep. A little wistful.</p><p><br/>His mouth... (No. Nope. Not going there.)</p><p><br/>I want to text Penny and tell her we had a conversation but I should probably actually finish having it, first.<br/>He's looking past me out of the window, and I don't know if the conversation’s over or if I can ask about something else. (Like his name. Or where he works. Or whose party it is.)</p><p><br/>Instead, against all reason, I shout: "Cult!"</p><p><br/>He looks at me like I'm mad. (He's right. This is the quiet coach, and I'm mouthing off about cults at seven-thirty in the morning.)</p><p><br/>"I'm sorry?"</p><p><br/>"Cult. Sorry, I looked at your newspaper earlier. Two-down—cult."</p><p><br/>He follows my trailing finger to the crossword puzzle. I feel guilty because he's been pressing his pen down while we've been talking, and there's a nasty blot on one of the clues. He curls his lip and smudges it with his thumb. "Oh, thank you." He's looking at me again. (His eyes are grey. I used to know someone with grey eyes.) (He's too perfect. Like, fuck me, mate - you need one flaw. Sort it out.) "Do you like crosswords?" He tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow at me.</p><p>He writes it into the space in neat capitals: C U L T. I could lie to make myself sound clever, but I don't think I'd be fooling anyone.</p><p><br/>"Not really. Never done one," I admit. "You do one every day, right?"</p><p><br/>"Two a day," he says shyly, as if it's anything to be embarrassed about. (Two crosswords a day? In pen instead of pencil? The man's a savage.) "One on the way to work, one on the way home."</p><p><br/>A normal person would probably take this chance to ask him about his job, but the nerves are making me feel sick and I need to look away before I throw up on his pinstripes. My phone vibrates - it's Penny, asking if I need help with any other clues. <em>All of them</em>, I think. <em>This whole bloody mystery. Help me, please. Help me not fuck this up</em>.</p><p><br/>When I look back, he's checking his watch. We've got another five minutes or so before we reach Euston.</p><p><br/>I bet he can't wait to get off this train.</p><p><br/>Will he still want to sit by me tomorrow?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><br/>Our brief foray into conversation lulls itself to an early death. I slump back regretfully. He always used to be shit at crosswords but he must have been thinking about the clue. Or maybe Bunce texted him the answer. She swears she would never interfere in my crosswords, even through Simon, but I trust her about as far as I could throw her. On that. On everything else she’s been a rock.</p><p><br/>Simon’s returned to looking out the window. Earbuds in, gone from me again.</p><p><br/>I trace the familiar outline of his profile with my eyes: nose, lips, chin.</p><p><br/>I sigh, considering the next clue.</p><p><br/>When you feel like you're getting nowhere fast. (5,2,3,3)</p><p><br/>How frustratingly apt.</p><p><br/>I'm about ready to throw down my pen and force a conversation when the train begins screaming - screeching along the tracks. I’m overtaken by an almost paralyzing fear. I remember this feeling of helplessness. I reach out and grip his arm, pressing him back into his seat as though that might help, watching in dismay as my hot coffee ends up all over my lap.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><br/>"Here," I say, fetching my bag from under the seat in front. "I've got tissues."</p><p><br/>I dump the box on his tray table and let him take as many as he wants. (It's not like I can mop it up for him. As much as I'd like to.) (What?)</p><p><br/>"Thank you. Sorry about that."</p><p><br/>His breathing seems shaky. It was only a too-sudden braking on the part of the driver—nothing to get overly worked up about. His coffee must have been extremely hot.</p><p><br/>We're somewhere just past Willesden - the driver made an announcement, but we don't know why we had to stop so suddenly. The conductor stumbles up and down the aisle, checking tickets and passes, fending off angry passengers. Me and 2B sit quietly. (His newspaper's ruined, but at least the splash missed most of his crossword.)</p><p><br/>My phone buzzes again: it's Penny.</p><p> </p><p>[7:39] Penny: <strong>Journey going well?</strong></p><p><br/>[7:39] Simon: <strong>delay. train stopped. gona be late</strong></p><p><br/>[7:40] Penny: <strong>Typical! Let me know when you get moving. (BFV doing ok?)</strong></p><p><br/>[7:40] Simon: <strong>split his coffee</strong></p><p><br/>[7:40] Simon: <strong>spilt</strong></p><p><br/>[7:40] Simon: <strong>is spilt a word or is it spilled?</strong></p><p><br/>[7:41] Simon: <strong>anyway gave him some tissue</strong></p><p><br/>[7:42] Penny: <strong>Hope he didn’t get it on his suit! Bet he’d hate that.</strong></p><p> </p><p>She's not wrong. His face is in a deep frown as he mops away at his lap. He grabs another handful of tissues and seems to make an effort to school his face back into its more usual, neutral expression. Until he passes the box back to me and his eyebrow quirks up. (Is he amused or annoyed? It's honestly hard to tell.)</p><p><br/>"Are you often armed with full boxes of tissues?"</p><p><br/>I shove it into my bag. "No. Well, lately, yeah. I'm in graphic design, right? We're trying out new stuff." I think about the design on the tissue box: a made up mythical creature that’s half wolf, half fish. I asked Penny fifty times what wolf-fish (merwolves?) had to do with tissues, but she never did give me a straight answer. "It's a sleeve you put over the box. Just printed a few to see how they look."</p><p><br/>He's definitely smirking now. I feel weirdly defensive about the merwolf.</p><p><br/>"It looks good." (Oh.) "What else have you designed?"</p><p><br/>"Just stuff." (Stupid, stupid, stupid.) "Things. T-shirts, mugs, logos. Just...yeah. Not all fishwolves.”</p><p><br/>It's like he's interested in me. I don't know what to do. Keep...talking...?</p><p><br/>Fuck me, this is hard.</p><p><br/>"Are you on your way to work?"</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>Yes, you prat. He already said he was going to work. Two crosswords a day, remember?</em>
</p><p><br/>"Sorry. I mean. Where are you going? Or, like, what is your job? Your work. What...are you?" <em>Shit</em>.</p><p><br/>He's finished cleaning the worst of the coffee out of his trousers (must not think about thighs), and piles the soggy tissue on his tray table.</p><p><br/>"My father's the editor of a magazine. Old News Invigorated.”</p><p>He pauses, as though waiting for me to recognize the name. I don’t. I mean, it’s itching that spot in the back of my brain that tells me maybe I've heard of it before, but it’s not ringing any major bells. If I knew about it, it’s a fact that’s gone the way of the rest of my uni years. I nod my head a bit anyway, to encourage him to go on.</p><p><br/>He frowns.</p><p><br/>“Well, it’s mostly archaeology, historical artifacts and the like. It's not just the magazine these days - there's a blog and all sorts. I do a bit of proofreading and photo retouching, that nature of thing."</p><p><br/>I was well off the mark in thinking he was a banker. Still, his dad's in media? He's got to be loaded. (Not that that matters.)</p><p><br/>“And I also… “ he falters. “I also keep up a baking blog on the side. It’s not mine.”</p><p><br/>He was looking at me while he was talking before, now he’s staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of him. “I took it over for someone who wasn’t able to continue it.”</p><p><br/>“That’s really good of you,” I reply, wanting him to smile. He does, a bit, but it’s strained.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Was that the wrong thing to say?</em>
</p><p>I don’t want him to stop talking to me.</p><p>I try again.</p><p><br/>“It's pretty cool that we're both into creative work.”</p><p><br/>Before he can reply, the train driver's dreary voice cuts over our heads, crackling through static:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my apologies for the delay to your journey. This inconvenience was caused by a member of the public trespassing on the tracks up ahead - we're being held here while police clear the way and give us the signal to press on. We should be moving within the next ten minutes. Again, apologies for the delay and any inconvenience this may cause - as I said, there was a trespasser on the tracks, and we are legally obliged not to hit them. Thank you."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I look at him and the tension from our previous conversation breaks. We both crack up. (We're not the only ones - half the carriage is laughing.) It's one of those weird moments of camaraderie among strangers. Like, we're all stuck on this train together and we're all going to be late, so we might as well have a laugh about it.</p><p><br/>"Spoken like a man who has hit many a trespasser with his train," he says, still grinning. I like his laugh. (His teeth are nice, too.)</p><p><br/>"Definitely." My nerves are settling now. If we're going to be here another ten minutes, we might as well keep talking, right? I've never felt glad to be delayed before. I bend down to my bag again and fish out another of my designs. "We do bookmarks, too. Do you read books? Thought maybe you did, if you like crosswords. Not that they're the same thing."</p><p><br/>He raises an eyebrow at me, taking the bookmark from my outstretched hand. I realise too late it's not the cool dragon one - instead there's a pink unicorn with a rainbow mane, whinnying over a glittery river. His jaw tightens when he sees it and he looks at me for a split second with an intensity I think I may have imagined, it’s so brief. Then all of a sudden he's standing up and stretching to reach something in the overhead rack. I get a look at his red-gold skin as his shirt lifts up, and I'm thinking what it would be like if -</p><p><br/>He steps back, holding his briefcase.</p><p><br/>I unlock my phone to send a text before he sits back down.</p><p> </p><p>[7:49] Simon: <strong>dying. send help</strong></p><p><br/>[7:49] Penny: <strong>What's wrong? Everything ok with the train?</strong></p><p><br/>[7:50] Simon: <strong>yes. 10 min delay. BFV is aghhh.</strong></p><p><br/>[7:50] Penny: <strong>Oh dear. In what way?</strong></p><p> </p><p>There's no time to reply. The bloke's sitting down with his briefcase open on his lap, looking for something.<br/>He actually says "Aha!" like he's in an old black-and-white detective film, and smiles as he holds up a glittery pink bookmark.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p><br/>Simon snatches the bookmark from my hand, comparing it with the one from his bag. They're exactly the same, save where the glitter on mine has worn off.</p><p><br/>"It's my sister's," I explain, tucking it back inside my book. (It’s not. It’s mine. I’m never without some token of Simon’s creation, I’ve just never let him see me with one before. My sister does have one of her own, so I’m barely lying.)</p><p>“It’s her party I'm supposed to attend today. She's turning nine." I check my mobile, which I keep in the briefcase alongside my book. "Though it seems they've cancelled after all - looks like the forecast for this afternoon has taken a turn for the worse.” I tug at my damp, coffee-encrusted trousers, not missing the way Simon’s’s eyes follow my fingers. "For the best, really, given the state of things."</p><p><br/>I glance up at him, reminding myself not to look too familiar.</p><p><br/>He's beaming at me. "I can't believe you've got one of my bookmarks."</p><p><br/>I take the new bookmark from him and turn it between my fingers.</p><p><br/>”Take that one,” he says. “For yourself. Everyone needs a glittery pink bookmark, right?”</p><p><br/>“Thank you, I say, tucking it into my book along with the first one. "I believe my sister has an array of things in this design,” (I know she has, I bought them for her myself.) “Pencil case, lunch box, notebook. All your work, I take it?"</p><p><br/>He's still grinning his head off. (It's delightful.) (It feels so good to be able to make him smile again. But so empty that he doesn’t know we’ve been here before.) (He's even more insufferably handsome, lit up like this. I’d almost forgotten.)</p><p><br/>"Yeah, we do all sorts of stuff. That's cool. Hope she likes it."</p><p><br/>"She does." I get up to store my briefcase in the rack, then slide back down with my hand out. The train still isn't moving, but <em>we’re</em> making more progress than we ever have before.</p><p><br/>"I'm Baz."</p><p><br/>"Baz?"</p><p><br/>"Basil, well, actually Basilton.”</p><p><br/>He frowns. “I knew someone . . . I think— No. Never mind.”</p><p><br/>He hesitates, looking down at our feet before finding my face again and smiling. Finally, he takes my hand and shakes it.</p><p><br/>"Simon Snow."</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>Simon Snow.</em>
</p><p><br/>I could cry.</p><p><br/>I almost do.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>Simon.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p><br/>I've never met somebody who looks more like a Basil in my life. It's bloody spot-on. In my head when I'm at work, I think about him lounging around, smoking a pipe and eating individually-wrapped chocolates...and the name Basil just adds to that image. It turns the lounging up to a hundred.</p><p><br/>Basil. Baz.</p><p><br/>I can't believe I know his name. Finally. It feels like it fits. Clicks into my head like it belongs. And he knows my name now too. He's no longer fit train bloke or seat 2B - he's Baz. He works on his dad's magazine. He's got a little sister who likes my unicorn doodles and her party was cancelled because of the rain.</p><p><br/>I don't think I'm going to tell Penny about this. Not all of it. I want to keep some of it for myself, to think about later when I'm replaying everything in my head for the thousandth time.</p><p><br/>"Want to help with the crossword? Might as well, whilst we're stuck here." Baz picks up the newspaper, pages turning crinkly with coffee stains.</p><p><br/>"I'm crap at stuff like this," I lean into him until our shoulders touch. (This train delay’s making me reckless.) (He doesn't move away.) (Is he actually leaning into me?) “But I'll give it a go."</p><p><br/>"Eleven-down: To mark your path through another world. Eight letters." He frowns, running the nib of his pen under the clue. "Map is far too short. Signpost? But that would mean eight-across is wrong and I'm quite sure owlery is correct..."</p><p><br/>I think I could stay on this train all day, watching Baz solve his puzzle. His nose scrunches up as he tries to find the answer. I'm distracted, watching him lick across his lower lip, and it's another minute until I realise the solution is in front of us.</p><p><br/>"Another world," I shout, making him jump in his seat. "A book. Mark the path...a bookmark!"</p><p><br/>He looks at me with such surprise I can't stand it, but then it fades into something else. And even though I'm feeling scruffy, sitting here next to him in his suit with his pretty hair and whatever fucking amazing cologne that is, I don't feel stupid. I reckon that's the last thing he thinks I am.</p><p><br/>"Simon, that's brilliant. It fits."</p><p><br/>It fits.</p><p><br/>And maybe it hasn't all been in my head, these past months.</p><p><br/>Maybe I do fancy a bloke. This bloke. And maybe I don't want this to be it - fifteen minutes in the morning, then nothing.</p><p><br/>Maybe Baz would -</p><p><br/>I stop thinking. I have to.</p><p><br/>The train jerks forward and I go with it, smacking my head into the seat in front.</p><p> </p><p>BAZ<br/>The monogrammed pen Simon gave me for my 20th birthday is on the floor, rolling its way around carriage C, crossword abandoned. My hands are cradling Simon's face, my jacket sleeve pushed under his nose to try to stem the flow of blood. He manages to kick his bag closer, and I pull the zip down to retrieve the box of tissues.</p><p><br/>"Good job I carry these around on a daily basis, right?" he says, red dripping down the front of his hoodie. I wad up a handful of tissues and hold them to his face, gently tipping his head.</p><p><br/>"Are you alright? Does it hurt?"</p><p><br/>His hand covers mine, holding the tissues in place. I pull back, hoping I haven’t overstepped by leaping in.</p><p><br/>"S'not broken. No worse than hot coffee on your legs. Sorry. Bastard train." He growls. "Why don't these things have seat belts?"</p><p><br/>We're moving forward again, and I can't say I'm not disappointed. This journey has been cruel to us in some ways - bloody nose, wet trousers - but so kind in others.</p><p><br/>"Can I get you anything?" I ask. Perhaps some water to clean his face, or sturdier tissue from the toilet. I could -<br/>"Maybe an Aero." He's eyeing the refreshment trolley as it wobbles its way down the aisle. I twist my head, reaching into a trouser pocket for my sodden wallet. He protests but I insist on paying—I can't help but feel this is somehow all my fault.</p><p><br/>They only have mint ones, but I know that’s alright.</p><p><br/>"Bloody perfect," he says, as I hand it to him.</p><p><br/>He peels the wrapper off and opens his mouth to take a bite when the train jerks to a stop as suddenly as it started—I move instinctively to stop Simon's face from hitting the seat again, and instead mine smashes into the seat in front of me.</p><p>Hard.</p><p>I feel myself falling.</p><p>”Baz! Are you alright?" Simon asks, reaching out for me.</p><p>And suddenly he’s crying.</p><p>“Baz!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>SIMON</strong>
</p><p>It’s him. It’s him.</p><p>I’m me.</p><p>I mean, I know I’m me. But I’m remembering who I <em>was</em>. What I’ve been missing.</p><p>He’s the bloke from the hospital.</p><p>I can picture it now, and everything is rushing back as I stare down at his face, a strand of black hair loose across his forehead, eyes closed against the pain, blood oozing from a cut on his cheek. My hands are on either side of his head. I don’t remember putting them there. And someone is saying his name over and over again.</p><p>“Baz, Baz, Baz.”</p><p><br/>It’s me.</p><p><br/>I’m the one saying it.</p><p><br/>Just like I did a year ago, when that lorry rammed our car into a cell tower and left Baz lying in a pool of his own blood. Without knowing why, I flinch and look up over my shoulder, trying to cover Baz’s body with my own and beginning to shake uncontrollably. Because that’s what I did the last time, isn’t it? When I heard the metal shearing off of the side of the tower before it came careening down. Onto me. Onto my head. And then— well and then nothing. That’s the last thing I remember until the hospital. The rest is gone.</p><p>Was gone.</p><p>Until now.</p><p>Baz is blinking his eyes open and his face is covered with tears. I think some of them are mine, but some are definitely his.</p><p><br/>“Baz,” I repeat, clutching him tighter. “Baz, Baz, Baz.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>BAZ</strong>
</p><p>“I’m fine, Simon. I’m fine. I’m okay.” Simon is gripping the sides of my face and weeping. I push myself up and his hands fall from my face to my shoulders.</p><p><br/>“Baz,” he gulps. “Is it really you?”</p><p><br/>I’m laughing and I’m crying. I hug him to me and bury my face in his curls. They’re as soft as I remember, and they smell different—he’s using a new kind of shampoo—but also so much like him. Holding him is everything I remember. And more, because I feared I’d never have it again.</p><p><br/>I pull him impossibly closer to me but he pushes away and I’m suddenly afraid I’ve misread everything—he doesn’t really remember me, I’m going too fast. As far as he’s concerned I’m just some creep on the train who gave him a flashback.</p><p><br/>But when I look at his face it’s not just Simon, the bloke in 2A, It’s my Simon looking back at me, for the first time in a year. He slides one hand up the side of my face in a gesture so familiar it makes me sob. (I had never really stopped.)</p><p><br/>With a gentle tug he draws my face closer to his and his eyes dart down to my lips.</p><p><br/>“Can I?” he asks.</p><p><br/>I nod.</p><p><br/>Our lips meet, warm and wet with tears.</p><p>It’s a mess, honestly, with both of us crying and blood still oozing down my face. I can even feel my nose starting to run. (Where is Simon’s box of tissues when you need them?)</p><p>But it’s everything.</p><p>I couldn’t ask for more.</p><p>Simon pulls away just enough to dip his head and nestle it into my neck, like I remember him doing, and mumbles, “Just wait until Penny hears about this.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry I took your beautiful, light, fluffy, getting-together fic and made it sad! </p><p>I had a lot of fun doing it and I promise you our boys are both happy and okay, with all of their memories intact and a renewed devotion to making the most out of each day.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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